


Imperator Sadestrina - Judgment Day

by SaigonTimeMD



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Battle, Draenei, Eredar, Gen, Harm to Children, Torture, lightforged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 20:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13819284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaigonTimeMD/pseuds/SaigonTimeMD
Summary: In a cell in the Exodar, an eredar warrior awakens to a new world where she must face consequences for her crimes in the Burning Legion's service.





	Imperator Sadestrina - Judgment Day

                Imperator Sadestrina dreams of war.

_My Word shall have no question._

                She stands on an open plain, clad in blackened-green armor, the crimson-clouded sky overhead rumbling with the distant call of thunder. Brilliant shapes, a dozen, a thousand, encircle her, converging in slow motion, rage advancing through deep water. She raises her axe, something drips against her faceplate, and she cannot tell if it is blood or rain. A golden blade flashes in her periphery, and she swing hard.

_My Justice shall have no mercy._

                The armor beneath her hooves buckles and collapses as another body joins the growing pile, the desert dunes around her turning a darker red with each felled enemy. Something about them is familiar to the Imperator, something in their horns or their beards, or the way they cry out as they died. She hears their agony as her Hellrender blade carves through the armor so painstakingly forged by smiths who should've known better, and she hears their terror as they realize, in their dying moments, the Light had abandoned them all. Bile bubbles up in her throat, and she bids them send more to meet their ends.

_My Vengeance shall have no equal._

                Every kill spurs her forwards, hacking, slashing, and headbutting through the snow-caked forest. She catches one wretch by the neck after his longsword clangs harmlessly off her chestplate; before he can start blubbering, she closes her fingers and wrenches away, ripping the fool's throat out with her bare hand, splashing hot blood on her arm and face. The Imperator's lips curl back, revealing teeth filed to points, and she licks the steaming liquid from her cheek. The taste is so euphoric that she barely has the awareness to duck under a massive, gleaming mace swung directly at her head; the blow clips off one of the horns on her monstrous helmet, and shatters the tree beside her to mere splinters. She spins around and slices her attacker in half from skull to groin with a triumphant bellow.

_My Fury shall have no end._

                Lightning splits the sky with a crack like a planet shattering, and still the Imperator can hear the wailing, a sorrowful, droning chorus howling above the storm. The mournful mass huddles at her hooves, quailing in fright, their homes – their planet – burning fel-green around them. Their great warriors rotting in the killing fields beyond, now they beg for mercy as if they deserved such a luxury. As if it were hers to give. A quaking shape catches her eye and she marches towards it – those who do not scurry from her path are crippled beneath her. As she grabs the shivering creature, the damaged remains of her gauntlet fall away, clunking to the ground. With a bare, crimson arm she drags the captive before the rest of the pathetic lot, and tears away the shroud. A crying father with a child in his feathery arms, old enough to understand what is happening but not old enough to fight. She yanks the child away, breaking its wrist with a snap, and tosses it to the blackened stones where it cries out in a tongue she does not need to speak to understand. The father moves, and she bats him away with the back of her hand, breaking a chunk of his bill off in her knuckle. With the same hand, she lifts his child and begins to choke the life from its throat. She cannot help smiling as she sees the abject terror in its eyes, the avian mouth clacking uselessly as it gasps for air, the one good hand trying to pry her fingers away. She hears the softest footfall behind her, drops the child, draws her Hellrender, and strikes wide; the top of the father's skull spirals away to land with a wet thunk on the ancient stones of the village. As the wailing grows louder still, she drags the now-screaming child away from the corpse of its father; had the old bird-thing let it die, his child's torment would be over. Now, it will be the first of the aliens crucified at dawn's light. This is the test of the Legion: submit or suffer. She has administered it to a hundred-thousand aliens on a hundred-thousand worlds, and it has yet to grow tedious.

_In Life, I shall have no rest._

                The Imperator does not know where she is now. It does not matter. She is naked underneath a roiling red sky, and hot rain pours, beats, slams down on her bare, battle-scarred body with a conscious malevolence. She is knee-deep in bones: skulls, spinal columns, shattered ribcages, an endless sea of the basest battle trophies, all clattering together in a maddening cacophony. A million raging enemies come at her from every direction, and she kills them with ease, with pleasure. Her armor is gone, broken by a billion blows in a million conquests, and her Hellrender axe, worn down on the skulls of the Legion's foes, is barely a stub of metal on the end of a stick, but still she kills. Skulls collapse between her palms, necks implode beneath her hooves, eyes liquidate as she drives her thumbs through them, and still she kills. The bones rise, surging first to her waist, then to her chest, and still she kills. Draenei, alien, construct, she kills them all, and there, at the very nucleus of the slaughter, she feels something like belonging, something like home. This is her purpose, the reason she was born, the reason she was made: to end. She grabs a splintered femur and rams it through the skull of a tan-skinned alien, cackling as she watches him take nearly five seconds to realize he's dead. The bones rise again and she screams in rage as her prize is torn away, as she is enveloped in the tide of marrow. She cannot attack, she cannot kill, she can only struggle in vain as her enemies rise farther and farther out of reach, buoyed on the dead. The infernal heat of her rage begins to drown in a cold, black paralysis, and now she is falling, falling through empty, absolute space, into a yawning abyss, a simple oblivion far more terrible than any karmic torment that could await her. She turns mid-void, sees the end, and roars.

_In Death, I shall have no remorse._

 

                Sadestrina opened her eyes, and recoiled as the brilliant light of her cell seemed to stab directly into her brain. She hissed, squeezing her eyes shut again, and tried to throw up her hands to block the blinding gleam, but they did not move. In an instant, she realized she was completely restrained: on her knees, arms out to her sides, shackled at every joint by a strange warmth that seemed to almost hum. She was also naked, and her head, once full of lustrous black hair, had been shaven. One eyelid lifted, and she saw pristine, ash-grey arms held not by metal, but by glowing runic circles and chains of golden light.

                They were her arms; not red, but ash-grey. Purified.

                She lashed out, summoning reserves of fury that would have sundered worlds as she fought to break free, but all she could do was twist and growl like a leashed animal. In the midst of her frenzy, she heard a chuckle, and her attention immediately snapped to the source.

                Three Lightforged stood before her, clad in full battle plate, armed as if going to war instead of interrogation; the two on the outside already had their warhammers drawn, but the one in the center, the source of the laughter, relaxed with his arms crossed, his shortblade idle in its sheathe. Slowly shaking his head, the middle one (a Vindicator by his ornate armor) knelt down, bringing himself eye level to her. The laughter stopped, but the smile remained.

                “You look so _small_.”

                He had a broad nose, with arched eyes, and horns that swung back over his long, silk-white hair; a single, jewel-ringed tentacle hung from his chin, and three small vertical scars sat on either cheek above his extended sideburns. Sadestrina licked her parched lips, and felt her teeth were still sharp.

                “Do you know how many of my men you've killed?” he asked, the smile vanished.

                “As many as I wanted,” she replied.

                Her captor's left eye twitched, but his face remained stone-set.

                “The first words of your new life, and you have spent them on spite. You truly do not waste time, do you, _Imperator_?”

                She bit back a smile; in its infinite benevolence, the Light dulled even their wit.

                “If time is precious to you,” she hissed, “then kill me, and let us _both_ be free of this tiresome conversation.”

                The Vindicator rose to his feet with a sigh, and patted the hilt of his blade.

                “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, _Imperator_ ,” he chuckled, this time without even a hint of mirth, “but your fate is not mine to decide. The High Exarch has seen a different path for you, and _I_ will see you walk it.”

                Sadestrina rolled her eyes. _Turalyon_. The Lightforged were so delusional they allowed themselves to be led by an alien. Pathetic.

                “And what is this oh-so-illustrious fate, chosen by your oh-so-illustrious master?” she asked. “Am I to be paraded and flogged, the Legion's harlot here to pay her penance at the hooves of the righteous?”

                Her captor whispered something to one of the guards, who quickly sheathed her warhammer and left the room.

                “Or perhaps you will drape me in chorister's linens and force me to sing hymns for a thousand years until my voice gives out and I must beg for clemency on silent lips?”

                He kept his back to her, but she could see the muscles in his neck as his jaw clenched and unclenched.

                “Or will I simply be dragged off to your barracks and be made a whore for your soldiers, that they may vent their lusts upon my ruined body whenever a sinful notion perverts their holy minds?”

                The Vindicator whirled around, disgust contorting his face.

                “Have you no shame?!”

                Her mouth split into a wicked smile.

                “My only shame is that there are Lightforged in this wretched galaxy who still draw breath, you mewling filth,” she growled. “Were I not chained, I would slaughter you and your pathetic guards with my bare hands.”

                He snorted, and knelt in front of her again, removing his gauntlet to reveal a snow-white hand. He took her own ash-grey hand in his, and locked their fingers together; she could feel the rage boiling off of him, vows made thousands of years ago the only things keeping him from breaking her hand or snapping her neck. The hate blazing in his eyes was exhilarating, but he quelled it, swallowed it down, and only steely resolve remained. Sadestrina was almost disappointed.

                “Before you are so quick to condemn the Lightforged, remember: you are one of us now, _sister._ ” He gave her hand a final squeeze, then released her. “You are purified in the eyes of the Light, and the Light fills you,” he sighed, pulling his gauntlet back on, “for better or worse.”

                There was a knock at the cell door, and the remaining guard opened it; the first guard came back in, pulling behind her a large, ivory chest that levitated above the ground. Sadestrina's captor strode over to it and flipped the lid open, revealing a blackened-green suit of armor inside.

                Sadestrina's armor.

                Carefully, he sorted through chest until he found the bracers, and as he carried them over to her, she heard a faint hissing as the fel-cursed metal reacted to his Light-infused gauntlets.

                “For better or worse,” the Vindicator chuckled. Sadestrina had only a moment to fully realize what was about to happen before he clapped the bracers around her wrists and her world turned to pain.

                It was unlike any agony she had felt in all her life; the Shivarran lash, the wracking torments of the Nathrezim, even the Mo'arg fires that had seared her flesh after every failure were bliss compared to this sensation. It was as if molten metal had been poured across her wrists, and her skin was boiling, melting, fusing beneath it, but there was no nerve damage to stem the overwhelming tide, to save her reeling mind, only pain, unceasing and unmitigated. She was blind with it, eyes rolling back in her skull, throat already going hoarse as she cried out completely oblivious to the gleaming cell and grimacing Lightforged within – until they locked the boots around her ankles.

                As Sadestrina began to shake, seizing uncontrollably, babbling, _begging_ through half-coherent lips, one of the guards hesitated and turned to their commander.

                “During the purification,” she began, “her mouth was bound. Uh, perhaps we should do the same now?”

                “No. Let the rest of them hear, that they might think on their sins.”

                “A-as you wish, Vindicator.”

                Piece by agonizing piece, the Lightforged locked Sadestrina's plate armor around her twisting body, the anguish multiplying with every additional armament. She howled, cursed, even pleaded for an end to the torture, but there was no relief, nor would there be; the two guards were visibly disturbed, but the Vindicator was unmoved, and every shriek seemed to harden his expression just a little more. After the tuille went on, all semblance of reason left her, and she began to thrash and scream like a wild animal, so much that the Vindicator had to hold her in place for the guards to strap the cuirass and shoulderplates on.

                When only her helm remained, the Vindicator personally held it above her head, waiting for her to regain some shred of comprehension. After minutes of violent shudders and hoarse grunting, she finally looked up, and he saw true terror dawn in her eyes.

                “Please, no,” she wheezed, blood from the tongue sliced open on her gnashing teeth drooling out of the side of her mouth.

                “ _My Justice shall have no mercy_ ,” the Vindicator quoted with a smile.

                Just as Sadestrina opened her mouth to spit whatever foul retort had bubbled up in her pain-addled mind, the Vindicator slammed the casque down on her bare head.

                At first she saw nothing, heard nothing, floated in an endless void of the purest distilled agony she'd ever known. Then her vision turned green, and for a split-second she saw the Vindicator grinning down through the fel lenses. The infernal hum of the armor activating reached her ears, and as thousands of tiny hooks inside each piece of fel-cursed plating latched into her flesh, bonding them together once again, her consciousness finally gave out, and she knew no more.

                When she opened her eyes again, the stone floor was cold against her bare skin; what was not bare felt submerged in magma. She was surprised at how easily she tolerated it. Within the helmet, numerous diagnostic readouts scrolled across her vision: she was alive, in perfect health, but in agony – as if she didn't know that already. She blink-clicked the scrolls of data away, leaving only one meter remaining in the top right of her vision: her kill counter.

                The traitorous wretches had reset it to zero.

                She wiped the blood from her mouth, and slowly – gingerly – sat up. Her legs screamed in agony, but this was an agony that had grown familiar, even in the last few minutes. It would not slow her for long. She turned her head, and saw the three Lightforged waiting for her to stand.

                Now they all had their weapons drawn.

                She turned over, hissing at the sabatons that felt like nails in her knees, and staggered to her hooves. Without a hard floor pressing against her armor, standing was almost tolerable. Almost.

                “Now what?” she growled.

                “Now,” a soft voice behind her spoke, “your redemption begins.”

                Sadestrina whirled around, shocked that even her armor's enhanced audio feed had not picked up someone else in the room.

                The voice belonged to an alien, one of those pale-skinned humans, with short reddish-brown hair, a goatee, and inquisitive green eyes. He leaned against the back of the cell, muscular arms crossed, clad in faded blue-and-gold armor; a fool might've thought he looked unconcerned, but Sadestrina saw him watching her every breath.

                The man was a weapon, and she found herself intrigued.

                “Master Mathias Shaw,” he said, answering her unspoken question, “Stormwind Intelligence, and chief spymaster of the Alliance.”

                “What do you want, Master Mathias Shaw?” she asked, spitting out his full title like an insult.

                “I'm putting a team together, and I think someone with your particular set of skills would make a fine addition,” he answered with the falsest smile she'd ever seen.

                Without a second's hesitation, Sadestrina kicked back, driving her hoof into the chest of the Vindicator, crumpling his breastplate and sending him back into the wall. The Imperator spun on her other hoof, caught a falling warhammer by the haft, and drove her fist across the first guard's jaw. As she felt the bone break beneath her knuckles, she smiled. Still in motion, she wrenched the warhammer away and brought it around in an upswing that crunched into the side of the second guard, who collapsed to the floor with a breathless scream. She pinned the still-gasping Vindicator to the floor by his throat, letting the warhammer sag just enough in her grip to lightly pressure his windpipe. He glared at her with unmitigated hatred, but he could do nothing.

                She looked up and saw Shaw in a fighting stance, a pair of ornate golden daggers in his hands. The smile was gone. Good. Now they could be honest.

                “Tell me what you're really here for, or they die. Slowly.”

                “The enemies of the Alliance have a strike team of freaks and monsters at their beck and call, and we need a response,” the spymaster grunted. “I know you don't give a shit about redemption, but there's a war coming, and the Alliance needs people who can get their hands dirty. From what Vindicator Lozaar tells me, not only is that _all_ you do, but you're the best at it.”

                “An endorsement?” Sadestrina cooed, grinning down at the Vindicator. “I'm touched.”

                “Go to the Nether,” Vindicator Lozaar hissed. She lowered the warhammer another centimeter. Just holding it set her already-aching palms aflame, but it was worth the pain to see the Vindicator squirm.

                “Two rules: you answer to me, and you do whatever it takes to get the job done,” Shaw continued, inching closer.

                “And this...armor?”

                The spymaster hesitated.

                “You can't--!” the Vindicator choked.

                “The High Exarch was specific about the conditions for your release,” Shaw finally admitted, “but after the war is over, we can renegotiate. If you're still alive.”

                Sadestrina laughed exactly once.

                “Until then, you can kill as much Horde filth as you want. Deal?”

                “Can I take trophies?”

                “I don't care.”

                When the Legion had come calling, some had bought the lies they sold; Kil'jaden, Archimonde, most of the elders, all deceived, all deluded by Sargeras' promise of power in the righteous name of remaking the universe as it should've been from the beginning. She had heard the fire in the Dark Titan's offer, she had smelled the brimstone on his throat, and she had joined anyway. Good and evil were words for the weak to organize their world with; she had a galaxy to conquer. She had not hesitated all those years ago when there was a war to be waged; why hesitate when there was a war waiting for her now? Empires rose and fell, but war was eternal – as she too would be. It mattered little whose flag she killed beneath, only that she killed.

                The choice the spymaster offered her was no choice at all.

                “We have a bargain.”

                She tossed the warhammer to the ground, and it cracked the stone where it fell. She tried not to show how relieved she was at finally letting go.

                “Finally,” the spymaster sighed, sheathing his daggers. “Let's get you out of here before you break anyone else.”

                They were out of the cell and halfway down the hallway when she heard the Vindicator call her name. She stopped and turned back, staring through fel-green lenses as Lozaar huffed and puffed his way past the lines of ethereal purple lamps. She barely registered his presence, focused instead on the weapon in his hands: the Hellrender axe, _her_ axe. The Vindicator held it out, and she reached to snatch it away, but his grip held fast.

                “May the Light deliver you to whatever fate you deserve,” he said, his strained voice cold, barely holding his hate in check.

                She said nothing.

                Her hand closed around the handle, the fel-cursed haft burning in her palm as it reacted to her purified flesh. After a long moment, the Vindicator released the weapon and walked back down the hallway. She briefly considered burying the blade in his skull, but thought better, and sheathed the gigantic axe on her shoulder-strap instead. The additional weight of the Hellrender caused the spikes inside her chestplate to dig in that much deeper, and she allowed herself a quiet hiss as she returned to the waiting spymaster's side. Once, such exquisite, precise pain had been like the touch of silk across her skin; fel-corrupted or not, if she enjoyed it once, she could learn to at least tolerate it again.

                “And where _is_ the Light delivering me this day?” she asked as they walked towards the crystal-lit exit side by side.

                “The Seething Shore,” Shaw replied, cracking his neck to one side. “I'll brief you and the others in the air.”

                “There are others?”

                “Oh yes,” he sighed. “You'll fit right in.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there, thanks for reading! This is the (sort of) origin story of my Lightforged Draenei OC in World of Warcraft! I was always disappointed that Blizzard did nothing with the 'purified Legion member' beyond that one Nathrezim, so Sadestrina is a Lightforged that was once an Eredar - and a really, really awful one, too. In my head, the rank of 'Vindicator' is something that the Draenei added after their exile/flight from Argus; Imperators were once their law-enforcement officials, and once the Legion took over, they switched to the Legion's law and became monstrous lieutenants. Sadestrina is one such Imperator. I also like the idea that the Light in Warcraft isn't inherently benevolent or merciful, it's something much more primal, and that even if a being was infused with the Light, it wouldn't fundamentally change them if they were naturally evil or broken as a person.
> 
> I have a ton of OCs, and to be honest I'm not sure why I started writing their origins with this one in particular, but here we are.


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